


I grant I never saw a goddess go;

by areyoumarriedriver



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumarriedriver/pseuds/areyoumarriedriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Besides which, he thinks, he likes learning to love her this way. Not all at once, but in increments. Piece by piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I grant I never saw a goddess go;

**_I grant I never saw a goddess go;_ **

 

_x_

He loves her mind first.

She is a beautiful woman with a beautiful name and a beautiful smile, but he feels affection for none of these things. She holds secrets in a book, clutches them close to her and trusts him with everything but these two things: the book and his life.

She is two steps (twenty-seven, four hundred and thirty-one, an  _infinite_  number) ahead of him at all times. No sooner than he thinks of a solution, the snap, crackle and pop of his thoughts running across his mind, she understands it.

She understands without even asking why he sent Donna to the TARDIS. She understands how to best attempt protection from the monsters in any shadow, she understands when to run and when to argue and when to listen. She even understands when to speak and when not to.

He  _likes_ that. It is a refreshing quality, but he also resents that she understands all of these things when he understands next to nothing about her.

This is what he understands in the end:

She knows him in ways he cannot comprehend, cannot argue against, and can never ever change. She is a fixed point in his time stream. She has a lovely name and a lovely face but  _oh_ her mind is something he’d like to see inside. Brush his hands across her temples and see what she feels like in there. She catches on far quicker than he’d like.

She loves him enough to die in his place.

And he doesn’t know her, doesn’t know who she is or when he will meet her again, but he understands that at some point, he will love her enough to save her. It falls around him like an obligation, a shackle thrust upon him by his own hands – his future hands. A clank and a lock and suddenly he understands, even though he  _doesn’t_ know her.

He saves her because he would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

He saves her because she was brilliant. And that should be preserved.

He saves her because he loved how she kept up – and even surpassed him there at the end.

He wonders if the he that he is now will ever see her again. Will ever witness that mind and know that she lives at the end.

He hopes so.

_x_

He loves her mouth next.

It speaks with wit, words chosen carefully, words of truth and lies, valour and bravery, soothing and antagonising. She fashions words into weapons and he watches her mouth shape them and wonders if she is finally an adversary worth fighting. Or maybe not an adversary at all, perhaps a sparring partner instead.

Not that he  _trusts_  her, because honestly, how can he at this point? So many conflicting accounts of her – some of them from her own mouth, and he isn’t sure if it’s wise to trust her, but she seems to enjoy the fact that he doesn’t anyway.

She teases him, taunts him, bothers him endlessly. And though he pretends for a moment that he could leave her there on that planet with a crashed ship, a purse and a pair of shoes that dangle from her fingertips; even he knows better than that.

So instead he watches her carefully, and ignores what she  _says_  in favour of what she shows. She takes her shoes off almost immediately, hanging them on the handle bar of the scanner. She feels at home here, in  _his_  home. She slips around and under him with practised ease, knows what to say to make him smile and how to yank him down an egotistical peg or two. She argues with him. He’s not used to that – that’s new.

She rations out the words she can say, always mindful of the words she cannot, and he tries to see what she is saying when she isn’t speaking at all. She doesn’t flinch when he stands too close to her, doesn’t jump when he does the unexpected – she simply looks like she was expecting that all along.

She speaks softly to Amy at all times, holds her when she’s frightened, soothes her when she is terrified. She even shushes her when he is thinking, and he is too busy to ponder it at the time, but he files it away for something to think about afterward.

She barely says anything at all when Amy is in danger because he has stupidly left her all alone and is desperate to save her. He yells at River, and she jumps like it is something he has never, ever done before – and that will haunt him later. She doesn’t waste time with words, instead going ahead with what he plainly told her  _not_  to do, and saves Amy all by herself. 

She stands too close and offers to sacrifice herself in his place, and it is easier then, to be a little angry with her. She can’t die for him then because she already has, and how many times must she offer her life for his?

She laughs at him on the beach, and he should be angry with her – she killed a man and kept that from him – but he cannot reconcile a murderer with the woman in front of him who trusts him implicitly and would do anything to save him. No, he thinks, she must have had a  _reason_. And who was he to judge? He’s killed too.

When she smiles at him, her eyes light up and the apples of her cheeks round and he thinks that he could love the shape of her mouth like this. He’s seen her smirk, smile knowingly, teasingly. He’s seen her mouth flat with anger and downturned in sadness or pinched in shock. But this smile is the one that pushes his hearts over. It makes him love her mouth.

And he wants to see it again and again and again.

_x_

The next time her meets her it’s definitely her hair.

Oh she is clever and brave, beautiful and coy. She flirts and he finds himself possibly maybe even flirting back. A bit. In a rather awkward manner, but he makes the  _attempt_  here and there. But he loves her hair, and doesn’t even realize it until he sees her in a wig of all things.

Granted, yes, she is being Cleopatra (years too late and she is far more beautiful than the real thing if you ask him, but she doesn’t consult him on it, so he doesn’t say anything. Out loud.) and the black hair is needed, but black makes her look too pale. He prefers the blonde. Or even the red he’d met her in to be frank.

But when she emerges from the tent dressed more appropriately, his breath catches at her  _hair_. It is glorious really, and she’d had it pulled up and back when he first met her, and brushed and teased into some semblance of straightness (or as straight as she could  _get_  it, he figures) the last time he’d seen her – but neither of those did her justice. She has all this  _hair_  and it is like a lions mane – wild, untameable. He wants to touch it right away, and continues to want to touch it the entire ride to Stonehenge.

Her face is alight with anticipation, a moment of true accordance between them as they stand at the doors of the underhenge. The excitement of discovery, of seeing a part of history no one has discovered yet – it is the best of both of their worlds, in one place. He thinks he can see it for a moment then, how she could be the yin to his yang or is it the yang to his yin? He can never get which represents which sex straight – but regardless, he sees how they could  _fit_.

She thinks just as fast as he does, matches him thought for thought, running around underground, her hair bouncing around her as she explains the tens of thousands of different kinds of danger they are in right now. At least ninety percent of his mind is on the problem at hand, he swears. But that other ten percent is calculating the rate at which her hair undulates as she runs.

And then he is dead. Or nearly dead, or possibly not dead at all, just not there. Erased from time and he can’t quite explain what it’s like exactly but he can explain what it’s  _not_  like and that is dying. It is backwards and a bit confusing – he does agree with Rory about that bit – because then he’s  _not_  dead and he is dancing at Amelia and Rory Pond’s wedding. It’s all great fun, and Amy gives him the diary and explains what she knows, which isn’t much at all really. She says the diary was blank, but a cursory flip through the pages tells him quite a few things.

The writing is back, of course, and River writes in a tiny, messy scrawl that seems fitting for a doctor – even if she’s not  _that_  kind of doctor. She also draws, which is surprising. He sees a hand-drawn sketch of Amy that is startlingly good before he snaps the diary shut, squeezing it in his hands to avoid temptation. He isn’t sure why River remembered him. She shouldn’t have, not at all. But she had and she came and gave this book to Amy to remind her to remember.

When he sees her in the garden, he has added another thing to his ever growing list of things he loves about River Song. Curls brush across her face and he is reminded of how she’d hovered about him, stricken after he’d been shot by the Dalek. Her hair looks soft and full, and he wants to touch it – touch  _her_ , as he thinks back on his desire to see just what her mind looks like. Really, he is even remarkably impressed by his own restraint when it comes to discovering who River Song is. There are so many things he could do to cheat – touch her, read her, scan her, taste her, inhale her scent and identify her planet and time era of origin.

But she is a mystery he cannot predict the outcome of, and he does love a good mystery. And really, he is so rarely surprised. Why would he want to ruin all that? Besides which, he thinks, he likes learning to love her this way. Not all at once, but in increments. Piece by piece. He doesn’t know exactly why he asks if she is married – because she says he dances at weddings and the crazy thought crosses his mind that perhaps he danced at their own. She answers, but doesn’t answer at the same time. All the same, he is convinced from that moment - with her hair blowing across her face as she smiles at him – that she  _must_ be his wife.

He finds this idea both strange and pleasant. Because they are all out of order, but that seems like something he’d enjoy, actually – linear living is something so  _human_. Nothing progresses in a straight line; it’s all happening everywhere all at once. It’s strange to think he would commit himself to a human like that, but then again, he realizes he isn’t entirely sure she  _is_  human. And it’s pleasant because he knows how much further he has to go to even be  _near_  a point where he would consider that option. And the journey is always more brilliant than the destination, anyway.

So he can smile when she leaves, even though he wishes she’d stayed longer.

But he definitely, definitely hopes she is wearing her hair down the next time he sees her.

_x_

It takes him no time at all to decide this time, that it will be her eyes.

When he comes back with his straw, she is the first one he sees, and there is something  _burning_  within them that he has never seen before. By the time he hugs Amy and Rory, and gets to her – what trouble has she got for him this time – he is peering down at her, trying to recognize the source of whatever is burning her up from within.

After the slap, he realizes it is something he did – or will do. All rather confusing, and he honestly didn’t think she was the type to hold a grudge, but she gains control again almost as quickly as she lost it, so he can only assume he will do something really really  _terrible_  to make her slip up and show her emotions so plainly.

He wonders what it could possibly be, but decides he won’t change it because it gives him an advantage now. He has seen her slip, seen the curtain lift and now he can read the emotions repressed within her eyes at all times. He sees the pain there when she asks him to trust her and he refuses. Honestly, it’s not that he wouldn’t trust her – hasn’t before this already, but he doesn’t think she knows that yet. But everyone knows something  _but_  him and he  _hates_  that. It frustrates him – because Amy and Rory are terrible at pretending everything is alright, and all of River’s outward calm can’t make up for the fact that Amy looks ill and Rory looks shattered, and  _no one_ is telling him _anything_. So he uses his words to hurt her. Because he can. Because she is strong –  _so_ very strong, and can take it. But when he sees that shadow of pain within her eyes, he wonders how he’s ever not been able to read her before and he feels guilty. Because maybe she never needed to hide all this emotion before now. Maybe this – what he’s doing to her right now, is what makes her so very good at it when he meets her again, from her point of view.

The thought is unsettling, and sits uneasily in his chest, lodged right between his hearts. So he tries to make it up to her, playing obtuse when she corrects his deliberate mistakes, teasing her with nicknames, flirting with her more blatantly than he ever has before. It is all an attempt to chase that ghost of pain out of her eyes, but he never quite succeeds. She plays back though, flirts back, tells him she hates him which he is beginning to think is their way of saying I love you, and drops hints and spoilers as she is brazenly hitting on him. Or is it even hitting on him, when, from her perspective, he is a bit of a sure thing? He supposes she is a sure thing too – and he likes that thought.

That no matter when they meet, beginning to end, they are always a certainty. He wonders if that is the thought that comforts her during these early meetings. He wonders if it will comfort him when he reaches an early River. The thought of a River that knows nothing about him seems so  _wrong_  somehow, and he has a lot of time to wonder about it all, chained up in Area 51 while Canton hunts down his companions and builds the perfect prison around him. He almost breaks character and grins when Canton tells him that River leapt from the fiftieth floor of a building. She is mad. Absolutely  _insane_  and after Canton leaves his is able to smile at the floor, remembering her words at the Byzantium. How he was  _so wrong_  about him not being there to catch her every time.

As usual, she was right. He  _does_ catch her, will always catch her, whenever she calls or needs it. She watches him intently as they explain the plan to Canton, glances at him with apparent irritation when he tags her with the recording device, but he can see past the surface now – he can see the amusement underneath it all.

He sees her barely repressed joy at the sight of him handcuffed at NASA when she and Rory come in with the president to rescue him.  He knows she must love that – either the rescuing or the handcuffs or maybe both, equally.

She is quietly torn apart when Amy goes missing, and he sees all of that too. She is concerned, but shows it by studying and studying the evidence left behind, scanning the astronaut suit while they wait for Canton to get what they need. She is quieter with her worry, but so is he. They both are allowing Rory to be the one who is desperate and out of control, because he is the one who holds that right more than either of them.

But as usual, he distracts himself with things that do not matter, or that do matter but that she cannot tell him. He pokes at her, prods her until she tells him just what he did  _not_  ask. They’re back-to-front, and his chest compresses a bit with that information, because while it was fun and exciting when they were all out of order and timey-wimey, back-to-front seems so much sadder. He hopes that she is lying. She lies – so does he, and he hopes this is one of those times. Maybe he’ll  _turn_  it all into a lie when he has more time. He has a time machine and can go anywhere he wants, any _when_  he wants, so this back-to-front nonsense will be rubbish. Not all time can be re-written but this he can do.

Distractions don’t matter soon enough though; there are rescues and grand speeches to be made. He does both with his usual aplomb and style, and River has her own brand of showmanship that he appreciates rather more than he should. She is like an unstoppable force, so brave and filled with righteous anger on Amy’s behalf. On humanity’s behalf. Her eyes are fierce and sharp then, as she shoos him out of harm’s way. He of course, watches everything from the scanner anyway, appreciating every moment of her victory. He doesn’t condone violence, has always used words first when possible, but this was different. It was kill or be killed, and she had no intention of dying.

When she asks to be taken back afterward, he can see her reluctance, and feel his own. He doesn’t want her to go – he quite liked having all of them there. Amy and Rory. River and him. He likes the solidness of them all in the TARDIS. It feels properly full, and he knows his ship agrees because she hums in a higher pitch, flies more smoothly and makes the trip through the vortex last  _just_  that much longer.

He even goes so far as asking her to come with them, in a strictly off-hand, casual manner of course. But her eyes are fixed on him, reproaching him for things he has no way of knowing right now. She is laughing at him with those eyes, and he resents it for a second, but then she is calling him back, still laughing and then she is kissing him and he just cannot do  _anything_.

But her lips are soft, and his hand brushes her hair, and he is suddenly touching all of the places he has always  _wanted_  to touch, and he cannot focus on anything, instead stretching himself out and trying to focus on  _everything_  all at once. It doesn’t work out quite like he thinks it should have, but he is nervous and awkward and he just wasn’t prepared for it, even though he  _should_  have been.

It is after all, mostly his fault. Because he felt badly for seeing things in those eyes that he didn’t want to see – so he flirted and he touched and he made her believe he was further along than he actually was. Or maybe he made her believe he was just as far along as he actually _is_ , because the pain on her face now nearly guts him, and he has no clue what to do with that. How to comfort her, or help, and generally speaking his history shows that he would in fact, only make it worse.

He runs, backpedals straight into his TARDIS, with the taste of her mouth still on his lips and the memory of her eyes haunting him. He just isn’t ready yet, he thinks. He doesn’t love her like she loves him. She loves  _all_  of him, and he is only up to her eyes – well her mind and her mouth and her hair and her eyes, and granted yes, that is a  _lot_  of her, but it’s not all of her. It isn’t even nearly all of her.

Everyone knows the most important bit is the heart. And he is ages away from loving that. He just doesn’t  _know_  her heart yet.

_x_

He decides he actually hates her.

Hates her voice and her eyes and her hair and her mouth and her whole entire existence because he thought that she loved him in far deeper ways than she actually does.

He hates that she makes him do this one – this most important one thing, alone. He hates that she can tell Rory no.  _Rory_  of all people – Rory the Roman, the boy who waited, innocent, loyal Rory.

He decides that clearly he doesn’t know who she is at all. Anything he thought he knew before this was a lie. She lied. To  _him_.

And he doesn’t feel badly about having hurt her before this. He wishes he had hurt her  _more_.

No matter, because he and Rory can rescue Amy all on their own. And he will never,  _ever_  love River Song.

_x_

The last thing he loves about her is her  _everything_.

Her hand is still curled around his own as she explains all the reasons she couldn’t tell him this before now, explains why she couldn’t be here with them though he can see how desperately she wishes those rules didn’t apply to her, explains how very, very much she does love him, has loved him, will always love him. She is  _his_.

And she explains all of this without saying much of anything at all, her hand over his as he reads her name and  _sees_  her – all of her – for the first time ever. Maybe this isn’t falling in love in increments, maybe it is truly love at first sight, it’s just that it took him longer to see her, fully.

And not so fully, because he knows that how she was born is not  _who_  she is. It is not the whole story – in fact he is sure that there are miles and miles to go before she is finished telling it to him, but she is here, and she is  _River Song_  – how did he not see her before this? She is beautiful – stunning and alive and standing before him, and he sees it all now.

And best of all – most of all – worst of all – she is human  _plus_. Human plus Timelord, and he will not be alone for a very, very, very long time. He stares down at her, his eyes dragging down over her body as a thousand unspoken thoughts run through his head. How old is she? Was she raised by the Ponds? How did she escape? How did she turn a lifetime of being trained to kill him into a lifetime of choosing to love him? How much like a Timelord was she? Vashta had said that the Clerics had been given ‘a good start’. Obviously she’d been genetically manipulated, did she have one heart? Did she age? Was she more human than Timelord or more Timelord than human? Could she regenerate?  _Could she_?

He wants to ask her all of this. Everything. Everything. He wants to run his hands over her, study and map her, discover the answer to every question he has. He wants to touch her, to taste her, to learn her fully. His hands shake with the prospects, but he glances over his shoulder and sees Amy and Rory and oh, they’re her  _parents_ , and that’s not – he can’t really – not right  _now_.

But he wants to.

 _Right now_.

And he has a time machine.

Her smile tells him that she understands, and her mouth curves in just such a way that he can read a thousand words unspoken within the corners of her smile. He doesn’t know if she has one heart or two, but he finds that he doesn’t care so long as he gets to a version of her right  _now_ that he can press his ear to her chest and love however many hearts she has. One, two, twenty – he doesn’t even care.

He thought he was ages away from this point. He thought he had time. But as usual, she waltzed in and blew all notions of time out of his hands, laughing about how much more she understands than him. He was wrong, and she is right – and he doesn’t mind that so much, as long as he gets  _her_.

River Song.

He laughs as he leaves, throws a hurried non-explanation out to her parents, almost trips in his haste to get to his time machine, to get to his version of River that knows that he knows. It feels like a middle, and he hopes that it lasts forever, and a long time after that.

He looks at her again, one more time before leaving. Because he cannot help himself, because he finally  _sees_ her, because he loves all the things within her that made her River Song, and he cannot wait to see the parts undiscovered.

Nothing can convince his hearts not to love her now.

He loves everything he sees.


End file.
